The Stages Of Grief
by KissMeImOnlyPlastic
Summary: That Kubler-Ross guy had it wrong. There weren't five stages of grief-Acceptance was just the optimistic end to the four stages. Rated for language. Just brotherly relationship, I suppose you can take it however you like.


_AN:/ When I mention Kubler-Ross, I assume it's the person who came up with the whole theory of the five stages of grief, I totally skimmed the page-It's okay though, I bet Dean probably knows as much about this shit as I do. Anywho, I was kinda dealing with a little loss of my own, so I incorporated a bit of what I did to get through it. Aside from the Demon deal thing-I was a little too upset to think that might work, might try it next time though-Who knows, right? Anywho, I suppose there's spoilers for the new season in this? If you're interested in a one shot request, check out my profile page for details. Enjoy. I'd love some critique on this, I know it's not great-I'm not looking for grammar/spelling sort of stuff, I'm just wanting to know if I actually made it feel real...Like, if I can actually manage to write the feeling of grief convincingly?_

The Stages Of Grief

Medically speaking, there are five stages of grief. What bullshit.

_Denial_

"It's okay," That was the first night, pressed into Lisa's arms, sobbing like a fucking child. Dean Winchester had never felt so pathetic in his life. He wasn't sure when he stopped crying long enough to sleep, he wasn't sure if he even stopped at all, all he could remember was how useless the word 'fuck' seemed after he'd used it for the fortieth time. Cursing that _fucking_ Lucifer, and that _bastard_ Michael.

Cursing those monsters that'd taken his little brother away. His little brother who he was meant to _fucking_ protect. His little brother who he never should've let say yes to those _assholes_ upstairs. Who cared if the world ended? Who cared if it meant he lost his brother. So sue him for being selfish for once in his life. Dean was sick of giving. Sick of being left on the raw side of the deal.

Sammy wasn't dead. No, Dean wouldn't _let_ him be dead.

Fuck the promise.

Fuck it all to fucking hell.

Samuel _fucking_ Winchester wasn't allowed to up and leave his brother. That wasn't the deal. That wasn't what they talked about. Dean didn't give a fucking damn about sanity, because it didn't make sense to anyone that he would've been dumb enough to let Lucifer wear his brother all the way down into that pit.

_Sam wasn't dead_.

End. Of. Story.

He could remember repeating this to Lisa. Remember her face as he spent the next few weeks with a bottle of whiskey permanently fixed into his hand. Remember running outside whenever he heard the slightest sound. Cursing, and promising to murder his little brother when the kid finally came back.

Sam wasn't dead.

_Anger_

Strictly speaking he never stopped being angry. Never in front of Lisa and Ben. No, he'd crawl into the Impala when no one was home, parked in the garage. He'd settle into the seat and he'd lay his hands on the steering wheel. Put in some over used tape.

"This is a great song, right Sammy?"

When the response didn't come, he'd slam his hands against the wheel like a child not getting what he wanted. He'd swear, and yell until his throat was hoarse.

Fuck everything.

He'd find every single Angel. Everyone. And hunt them down, make them all pay for what they'd done. It was their fault. Those stupid, pompous, self-righteous dicks with wings. It was their fault.

He couldn't remember when he'd started crying. It was probably half between cursing the Angels, then cursing Bobby for supporting Sam's stupid idea in the first place-For convincing Dean that he should support it too. That he shouldn't simply lock Sam down in that room again to protect him.

It was his job.

He was his big brother.

It was his fault.

"My fucking fault, Sammy-I'm so sorry-I'm so sorry I let you down-" He balled his hands into fists and rubbed at his eyes until he realized it was useless and collapsed against the wheel and wept til it hurt.

"I should've stopped you-I should've saved you. What kind of big brother am I? I promised Dad, didn't I-Remember, Sammy-When we-…Oh…fuck-" He could remember it hurting too much to keep talking, he wasn't even sure if he was speaking distinguishable words anymore, anyway.

By the time Lisa and Ben got home from the park, he was back at the drinks.

_Bargaining_

"Crowley you dumb bastard!"

It hadn't taken long to put the box together, to find a suitable crossroads. It hadn't taken Dean long to start hunting down every single one of those fuckers, until he'd heard 'no' in every possible way it could be phrased, but if anyone could bring back Sam it'd be Crowley, right? Crowley could fix this-That fucking demon owed them one anyway.

"Please-Just take my soul-Take everything! I don't care-Just bring my brother back-Bring him back-Bring Sammy…"

And again he was a pile of useless syllables, collapsed on his knees in the middle of the crossroads, beating his fists against the gravel covered road until his knuckles were bleeding and he couldn't summon anymore energy to move.

Someone had to fix this.

Someone could.

"Is this what you wanted, huh? You selfish bastard! We did everything for you! Stopped your stupid apocalypse, and this is how you pay us back!" He screamed at the heavens.

"I lost my brother for your stupid war! I lost my brother cause you couldn't be bothered fixing this damn mess yourself! Well fuck you-Fuck you, you giant floating asshole!" Dean growled, and when he finally made it back to the car, he drowned his cursing and anger into another bottle of beer.

He'd be back tomorrow.

Demons wouldn't.

They knew they couldn't help him. And to be honest, they didn't want to anyway.

_Depression_

Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months. And it had been six long months since Sam had been gone. He didn't stop hoping against hopes that Sam would just show up one day-Say he'd gotten lost on his way past that one place that made those great pies-He'd gotten pulled into some hunting job-And well, here he was now.

Lisa was worried.

Every time things got better, something happened. The other day Dean had sworn he'd seen his brother, he'd followed the guy around the mall before hugging him only to find out it wasn't Sam. He'd spent the rest of the day in silence, hating himself for the stupid naivety he'd let consume him.

He'd gone back to the cemetery.

He'd once been there a whole night after a full bottle of whiskey. One litre later, he was in no condition to be moving, but he'd dug into that one spot on his hands and knees. Digging for hours. Convinced if he could only dig a little deeper, he could save Sam.

Lisa wasn't sure if she could help him anymore.

He didn't eat. He didn't sleep. When he did sleep he woke up in a cold sweat, watching as he once again failed to save his brother. Failed to bring him back.

Four stages of grief? Yeah right-He never got to stage five. He'd never accept it. And when he was finally sitting there-Staring at his little brother as the man chugged down a whole mass of salty water, trying to prove he was real, Dean was finally out of words. Out of curses. Out of things to scream, or yell.

He just hugged his brother, hugged him for dear _fucking_ life. All that goddamned pain rushing back to him, and all he could do was cling on to the family he had left and pray to God for fucks sake, that the man wasn't yanking his collar.

This was real.

He was here.

That _Kubler-Ross_ guy could go stick his five stages of grief where the sun didn't shine.


End file.
